


Make Him Beg (Twice)

by lockedin221b



Series: Tied Up With String [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bondage, Christmas Eve, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gift Giving, M/M, Rope Bondage, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[request] kissesjohnlockandgrell said: Sherlock is the gift John gets the gift Irene gives the gift Mwahahahajsaaa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Him Beg (Twice)

**Author's Note:**

> What better time to do a bondage series than the season of gift-wrapping!
> 
> I was originally going to do one, but doing a bunch sounds like fun. Can't make promises on how many I'll do or which ones I'll get to, but for the moment I am still taking requests on tumblr [here](http://lockedin221b.tumblr.com/post/70945218951/).
> 
> Since I'm going to be filling several prompts over the next couple days or so, these are going to go up as rough.

kissesjohnlockandgrell said: Sherlock is the gift John gets the gift Irene gives the gift Mwahahahajsaaa

John looked over the kitchen table in dismay. They were having their annual Christmas Eve drinks that night, and the place was still a wreck. Sherlock had promised to clean up. John really ought to have known better by then. He rolled up his sleeves and began putting away the shopping before dealing with the mess. As he was shutting the last cupboard, his phone chimed with a text.

The number was blocked, and there was no message. Only a photo attachment. John opened it. The picture showed the knot of a red bow. He replied asking who the sender was, but he received a failure to send message. As he was about to pocket his mobile, a second photo came through. This time, it was of the bedroom door.

John had assumed from the quite state of things Sherlock was out. Now he began to wonder and made his way slowly to the hallway, mobile held half-forgotten in his hand. “Sherlock?” he called tentatively. There was no response.

The bedroom door was ajar, but only just. John eased it open and flipped on the light. His breath caught and his fingers tightened around his phone. There on the bed was Sherlock. Only it wasn’t simply Sherlock. He was gagged, for one. For another, he was sat with his legs out in front of him, tied together with rope, and tied between the corners of the bed. His arms were bound above the elbow to his torso, and at the wrists, where they were secured in place over his groin. Atop his hands was a large red bow. Attached was a card.

Sherlock gave John a scowl.

John quickly removed the gag. “What the hell happened?”

“The card will explain,” Sherlock muttered. He proceeded to stretch his jaw and sad nothing further.

John carefully detached the card from the bow and opened it.

_John-_

_Learn to make him beg. He likes to beg., but only after you’ve made him._

_Happy Christmas to you both._

It was signed with a lipstick mark, the red of which matched the bow precisely.

“Irene,” John grumbled and sat on the side of the bed.

“What did she write?” Sherlock seemed minimally affected by his state beyond mild annoyance.

John looked at the card. “Giving us relationship advice.”

Sherlock snorted. “Sex advice is more probable.”

John tossed the card on the bedside table and turned to Sherlock’s bindings.

“Really, John?”

John paused with is fingers barely on the rope at the nearest corner of the footboard. “Really what?”

“You’re letting a prime opportunity like this pass you by?” Sherlock gave him an eerily calm look, one eyebrow arched delicately.

“You think I’d take advantage of you?”

“It wouldn’t be me you’re taking advantage of, but the situation.”

John looked at the card to the ropes to the bow to Sherlock’s face. “You agreed to this?”

“Do you really think she could have coerced me into this condition?”

“Sherlock, the first time we met her, she drugged you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me this was partly your doing?” He gestured to Sherlock.

“To an extent. I asked her advice on a gift for you. This was her suggestion.”

John went suddenly very flush. “You—she—your Christmas present to me is yourself?”

“In this particular state, yes.”

John’s gaze lowered to the bow. “It’s still Christmas Eve,” he murmured, not sure what he was saying.

“And as you insisted we accept my parents’ invitation to spend Christmas with them, I thought it might be best to give you your gift today.”

“Right.” John wetted his lips. “I’m not sure if you’re being cheap or romantic.”

“Does it matter? As long as you enjoy the gift-”

“That’s yet to be determined.” John looked up at Sherlock and braved a grin.

Sherlock smirked back. “Perhaps you ought to open it and find out.”

John lifted the bow. He stared for a solid ten seconds before saying, “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Irene left about an hour before you came home.”

“You can’t have been hard this whole time?”

“Only since you came home. It’s been infuriating waiting for you.”

“That’s, what, twenty minutes at least?”

“Closer to thirty I should think, considering our lengthy conversation leading up to this point.”

John ran a hand through his hair. “I’m impressed.”

“And I’m incredibly horny, so may we carry on?”

John chuckled and leant in to kiss Sherlock. The other man’s mouth was the epitome of needy, tackling John’s for all its worth, sucking and biting and twisting his tongue in John’s mouth in the most satisfying ways, demanding reciprocation.

“Oh.” Sherlock pulled away, and they were both breathless. “She left another note in the drawer, with the lube.”

John’s mind took a moment to switch tracks from snogging to words. He fished out a second envelope. This one contained instructions. Part of him was appalled and annoyed with Irene’s audacity; part of him was eager to follow her instructions to a T. He opted for the latter, deciding he could still go for the former after all was said and done.

The only line he ignored was the first; he did not replace Sherlock’s gag. The rest, he quickly committed to memory and set the card aside.

“Well?”

John gave Sherlock a long steady look. “You’re sure you’re okay with all of this?”

“Yes.”

John kissed him again, this time every bit as pushy.

After the kiss, John slid Sherlock further down on the bed. Once there was enough slack in the ropes attached to the corners. He untied the ropes keeping Sherlock’s hands around his cock and told Sherlock to bend his elbows. Sherlock obeyed without question or hesitation. John bent Sherlock’s legs until the tops of his thighs were against his chest and his calves were flush with the bottoms. He lowered Sherlock’s forearms so they wrapped snugly around his knees. He used the ropes that had kept his wrists in place to now tie the ropes on his thighs and calves together. All the while, Sherlock looked interested, but he didn’t say a word. John tilted him carefully until his back was against the mattress and the ropes once more taut, with Sherlock’s arms preventing his legs from unfolding.

As John went back to the nightstand, Sherlock observed, “You’re still dressed.”

John paused and looked down at himself. He was dressed. Hard, but dressed. He removed his belt, opened his fly, and peeled off his jumper. His arms prickled from the cold, but he didn’t think he’d notice for long. With the lube in hand, John bent down for another good snog before returning to Sherlock’s lower half. No matter how many times Sherlock had folded himself up in his chair, often to sulk or yell at crap telly, John was still taken aback by how compact the gangly man was at that moment. He kissed Sherlock’s knee, his fingertips, his shins and ankles.

Sherlock’s hole was particularly tight in that position. It took John longer than it ever had to get a single finger all the way inside him. Every muscle clenched harder and more frequently than usual, and he had to work so very slowly. It made Sherlock wriggle, at least as much as his restraints would allow. He would occasionally try to swallow a small groan, but mostly he panted as John worked that single finger inside him.

At two fingers, Sherlock began to perspire significantly. His ankles regularly tensed, testing the rope’s strength. Everything held in place. He wriggled less, but he panted harder, and fewer moans were kept from John’s ears.

When John began to gradually scissor his two fingers wider and wider inside Sherlock, the genius began to keen. His muscles clenched purposefully around John’s fingers. All this time, John had made sure to do little more than brush Sherlock’s prostate.

It finally came out, and not as a curse or a demand. There was no exasperation. There was only pure desire, pure want when Sherlock whimpered, “John, please. Fuck me, please god please please John—fuck me!” He all but sobbed the last two words.

John was all too eager to oblige, having himself been desperate for the moment. He climbed between the two ropes tying Sherlock to the bed. He was still mostly dressed: vest, pants, trousers, even socks. He didn’t care. He hurriedly pulled his cock and bollocks from his pants, slicked himself with lube, and sank into Sherlock.

Their groans drowned one another out. John found purchase on the ropes around Sherlock’s wrists and began thrusting into him without any gentle build-up. His rhythm was fast, shallow, and hard, and each strike to Sherlock’s prostate produced a high moan from the man himself

John felt Sherlock come, his entire body grown suddenly even more rigid. His muscles seized around John’s cock, and with a loud groan John pushed through Sherlock’s orgasm, fucking him until the other man’s body went limp, held in place only by the ropes.

Sherlock still looked at him, eyes slightly hazed from orgasm, but still with their underlying intensity. He watched John, slack-jawed though he was, with unwavering focus as John fucked him and his over-stimulated prostate well beyond his climax.

He began to mouth something, something John couldn’t hear. John leaned his head a little closer, tilted his ear toward Sherlock’s face, never once losing momentum. “Please,” Sherlock whispered, dry-mouthed. “Please, John. Come in me. Please.”

The words and the way in which they were spoken sent a shudder through John, and in the next thrust that shudder turned into his own climax. He came into Sherlock’s used and loose arse, pushing deep inside him until the pulsing of his orgasm faded.

Once John had the strength to move again, he pulled out. For a brief moment he admired the ejaculate that trickled out of Sherlock’s red hole. He began untying Sherlock, a slow process with his tired and clumsy fingers. When at last Sherlock could stretch his legs out, he revealed in doing so the mess of his own ejaculate smeared on his stomach and thighs.

“I suppose I ought to shower before tonight’s event.”

“Fuck.” John flopped onto the bed beside him. “I really don’t want to clean after this.”

Sherlock frowned. “You cleaned the flat this morning.”

“But you didn’t keep your end of the bargain.” John scowled.

“I will as soon as I’ve showered.”

John lifted his head. “Really?”

“Of course. I’d been rather preoccupied today, if you hadn’t noticed.”

John chuckled and laid his head down again. “Right. You go clean your mess then.”

“First I need to clean yours.” Sherlock lifted himself on his forearms, only to collapse instantly. “Once I’ve regained the ability to move.”

“Better hurry. We’ve only a few hours before people show up.”

“Further proof that these little get-togethers you insist upon are far too troublesome for their worth.”

John groaned and pressed his face into the mattress. “Shut up and go shower.” He felt a shift in the mattress, followed by a kiss on his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, John.”


End file.
